


Poetry In Your Body

by turduckenail



Series: Poetry [1]
Category: Danny Phantom
Genre: Dash has a gay awakening and just rolls with it, M/M, Not Phantom Planet Compliant, Oral Sex, Post-Canon, They're like 20 something it's fine
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-08-08
Updated: 2019-08-08
Packaged: 2020-08-11 17:54:33
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,153
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20157673
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/turduckenail/pseuds/turduckenail
Summary: Dash runs into a stranger at a dance club.





	Poetry In Your Body

**Author's Note:**

> @ Anyone I know in real life: Please, I'm begging you, don't read this one, I won't be able to look you in the eyes ever again, please. Go read my other fics instead.
> 
> @ Everyone Else: Okay I know I promised a new TLW chapter and that's definitely coming, don't worry. I found this in my stack of old fics today though and was like. You know what? Sure. So I cleaned it up a bit to make it not suck and now here we are. I don't really write smut ever so it might be a bit low quality but I'm pretty okay with how it turned out. Hope y'all enjoy. :)
> 
> Title is from Move Your Body by Sia

You're not sure how you get yourself into these messes.

It's 4 am on a Saturday, and you've woken up with a stranger in your bed. This in itself is not a strange occurrence, especially if your brewing hangover is anything to go by. You were at a bar last night, of course you hooked up with someone, and you definitely remember hooking up with this one.

It was some Halloween event at a dance club. Not your usual choice of drinking venue, but your girlfriend of the week had dragged you along and you'd decided to make the best of it. That meant a half-assed attempt at a costume you threw together literally an hour before you left, and a cheap half-face mask you bought at a dollar store on your way to pick up your date.

Most people there were in costume, and a decent majority had masks in deference to the "masquerade" part of the masquerade dance party advertised by the posters at the front door.

At some point, you'd lost your date in the crowd. Probably for the best, to be honest. You were probably going to break it off with her soon. She didn't suit you as well as you'd like, and you were starting to get bored.

It's around that time that something catches your eye on the dance floor.

There's a crowd forming, a rough circle around the center of the room where two people stand, facing each other. You have a second to wonder why security isn't breaking up the showdown when the next track starts and one of the people starts cutting a rug.

Yeah, sure, why the fuck shouldn't there be a dance-off.

The first guy finishes a quick routine and the crowd cheers it’s approval as the next person steps up. You drain the rest of your drink and push your way to the front of the crowd to see what's going on-

And are stopped in your tracks.

The next person - their long hair and longer legs and frankly _insane_ heels make you think they're a girl before you catch a glimpse of their chest, shoulders, jaw sharp enough to cut glass and you tentatively settle on them probably being a guy? Whatever. He could be an alien with no concept of gender for all you care right now. Because right now he's showing off a kind of flexibility and balance that you didn't know you could have in heels.

His movements are sharp and exactly precise in the same way that they are fluid and organic as breathing. He makes it look like his dancing is just an extension of the movement of his own beating heart. For as long as his movements allow him to face forward, he's making full, defiant eye contact with the guy across from him. It’s a challenge, a show of dominance. 

His eyes are sparkling in the strobe lights. He knows he’s got this guy beat, he had him beat ten seconds after he started. But he’s still going. He’s just showing off at this point, milking this landslide victory for all it’s worth. He’s lightyears outside of his challenger’s league and he knows it. He’s revelling in it.

You glance over to the other guy in this showdown, who hasn't moved since the other guy started dancing. He looks just about as turned on as you are, and twice as intimidated. You would be too if you were in his place

The music stops, and the guy in heels ends his routine with a toss of his hair and a smirk. The crowd loses its collective shit.

Maybe you were higher up the Kinsey scale than you thought you were.

You're too distracted by your unexpected crisis to register how it happens, but you make eye contact with him as the crowd starts to break up.

He freezes for a split second, shoulders stiff just for the time it takes to blink, something like recognition in his eyes. There’s no way you’ve met before though. You can’t see much of his face because of the mask he’s wearing, but if nothing else you think you’d remember those legs. He looks at you for a long moment, and you feel pinned under a microscope as he analyzes, calculates, comes to a decision. Then he's smiling and honest to god sashays right up to you.

"Enjoy the show?"

You try to be suave, you really do, but what comes out is "How the fuck did you do that in heels?"

The stranger blinks, then barks a laugh that squints his eyes and pulls his lips tight over his teeth. "I'd tell you, but I'd have to kill you. Trade secret." Then he winks and you feel whatever logical thought you still possessed throw up its hands and call it a day.

"So hey, listen," he taps your bicep lightly with the back of his hand, leans in conspiratorily and you reflect his posture without thinking, "I'm tryna' ditch my date. Wanna help?"

Oh. Okay, yeah. That you can do.

You grin, not too big, don't want to seem too eager. "So am I. My car's out front?" You pose it like a question, and the stranger smiles, wide and wolfish.

"Lead the way, big guy."

You do, which leads to the two of you sprinting through the rain to make it to your car before you get soaked to the bone, then tearing your wet clothes off each other once you finally stumble inside your front door, followed by the best fuck you've had in ages.

And now you're here.

4 am on a Saturday, with the stranger in your bed, and the light of the lamp on your bedside table casting a warm glow over his face.

Now the thing about masquerade parties and the masks that come with them is that they, by design, are really good at hiding the face and the identity of the person wearing them. The dim light of the club had added to the general obfuscation of features, then being outside in the rain after dark, and you hadn't really bothered turning the lights on last night, there was enough light coming through your windows from the streetlights that you could at least mostly see and you were in a bit of a hurry.

Point being that this is the first time you've gotten a good look at his face and, apparently, this stranger isn't as much of a stranger as you’d thought.

You're pulled out of your second crisis of the night - this one much less welcome than the first - when he squints his eyes open. He blinks, slow and sleepy, breathes in deeply, catches sight of you looking at him.

Groans, heaves himself up on his elbows and reaches his body across yours to fumble for the digital clock on your nightstand. Groans again and drops his weight onto your chest.

"'s too early," he slurs against your sternum.

You're still too stunned to say much of anything.

The not-stranger - and if you're not horrifically mistaken that is Daniel "Danny" "Fenturd" Fenton from high school with his face between your pecs - huffs a sigh and rolls back over onto his side of the bed, seemingly with every intention of passing right back the fuck out.

"... Fenton?"

He doesn't move for a moment and you think he's already asleep, then you hear the faintest 'goddammit'.

He rolls onto his back and squints up at you. For one heart-stopping second your eyes catch on his hair curled across the pillow, and the pale curve of his neck and the bruises you left there, and the petulant turn of his lips against the light his eyes haven't adjusted to yet before your mind catches up and nopes the fuck out of that train of thought.

"Long time no see, Dash."

"... Uh."

There's a distant roll of thunder and the patter of rain against your window redoubles. It interrupts the silence, but the gentle cadence and warm glow of the lamp settle against your skin like a warm blanket and make everything feel gentler than you'd like it to right now.

Another awkward moment of the two of you staring at each other. Finally, Fenton breaks the stillness by stretching - luxurious and distinctly catlike in the way his spine arches off the mattress. He leaves his wrists crossed above his head which is doing some kind of thing to your ability to think. "If you let me wait out the storm here I'll blow you in the morning."

That gets your attention. "Uh, what?"

He waves a hand vaguely in the general direction of the window. "My hotel's across town and I really don't want to walk."

On cue, there's another peal of thunder, a bit closer this time. And, okay, look, you're an adult, you have the self-awareness to know that you're kind of a jerk. A lot of a jerk. You had been a fucking menace back in high school and you’re damn well aware of it. This isn't news to anybody. But it takes a special kind of heartless to kick the guy you just fucked out of your bed to walk across town, in the rain, at ass-o-clock in the morning. He’d probably wind up getting shanked in an alley. You're a jerk, not a psychopath.

And the promise of a blowjob in the morning does sweeten the pot a bit.

So you shrug, "Yeah, sure," and turn off the light.

\---

You’re drawn back to consciousness by the feeling of Danny licking a hot stripe up the length of your soft cock before taking you fully into his mouth and sucking. You’re still mostly asleep and you barely have any idea what’s going on. Your brain is completely offline at the moment, but your dick is helpful enough to send the memo that everything’s just great and you absolutely should not interfere with what’s happening right now.

You make a breathy sound that’s not quite a moan and manage to get your limbs to cooperate enough to tangle your hand in Danny’s hair. Not guiding him at all, just resting there. Danny hums at the contact and the vibration sends a jolt of pleasure through you that your sleep-addled brain can’t quite wrap itself around.

“Mm, fuck, not one for foreplay, huh?”

Danny just hums again and pulls back to tease the head with his tongue a bit before taking you back down to the root.

You’re rock hard so fast it’s embarrassing. In your defence, it’s hard to keep yourself under control with possibly the prettiest man in the city caught between your legs, lips stretched wide and wet around your dick and moaning like a porn star.

It’s just a few more minutes before you use your hand in his hair to pull him as far down as you can. He deepthroats you like it’s nothing and swallows everything as you come down his throat. The orgasm hits you like a bus. Belatedly, you think you should have warned him, but right at this moment you really can’t bring yourself to care.

Eventually, your grip on his hair loosens enough for him to pull off. He looks fucking delicious. His eyes are dark with lust and his hair is a mess from your hands. The bruises on his throat - the bruises that you bit into his skin last night - stand out in stark contrast against his pale skin and you can’t help but think that you’d like to add a few more. A single string of saliva hangs between his lips and your dick for a second before stretching and breaking as he sits back on his heels. There are a few drops of come gathered at the corner of his mouth, dripping down his chin. He catches your gaze and holds it as he wipes it away and licks his fingers clean with a pleased hum and a smirk.

You swallow. Hard.

He pulls his finger out of his mouth with an obscene _pop_. Then he winks, all mischief, and hops out of bed and right out of the room, already dressed in what he wore last night without the decency of looking even slightly self-conscious despite his thoroughly debauched appearance. “Thanks for breakfast,” he calls over his shoulder.

You still haven’t gotten your thoughts together to quite form a response. The front door clicks shut, and you slump back against the mattress.

You have no idea what just happened.

\---

Later, when you’re picking up your clothes from where they’d been tossed, you notice he left his cheap black masquerade mask on the bedside table. Beneath it is an unassuming scrap of paper with seven digits written on it in a loose scrawl, punctuated with an ‘xo’.

You pull out your phone and text Paulina. You need advice and some very strong coffee.


End file.
